Poem-A-Day: Day 169

Maintain

Work today,
every day,
something always happening,
happening,
something,
every day,
but nothing ever really happens,
routine maintenance,
fixing shit,
the refrigerator is running,
nobody can catch it,
maintain,
work to maintain the day,
every day
is work.

Poem-A-Day: Day 168

Painting Rooms

Swell and crawl,
scrawling golden years;
paint across the walls
in jarring lightning bolt shapes,
crooked tears that seem to go nowhere
but over, down, up, and across
in every direction
with no direction,
screaming thunderous booms
in a pattern representing a chess board,
bored with playing games
and pushing check
when the mate has passed
the king for pawn.

Poem-A-Day: Day 167

Human Wasteland

Poem-A-Day: Day 166

Hide-and-Secret

Somewhere there are secrets.

They hide like children
giggling behind closed doors
hoping to be discovered.

They hide for a purpose;
a game of counting moments in the dark
contemplating the successes
of one closet over the other.

Secrets hide,
not out of fear,
but out of fun;

dark shadows whispering within the linens.

Poem-A-Day: Day 165

Beach Bum

I touched the sky today
for a second
before the sun clipped my wings
and sent me back towards
the fiery beach.

I saw the sand coming
each grain
magnified one thousand times
until they looked like boulders,
so I braced for impact.

I didn’t die at all, no blood,
not a drop was shed
on the soft yellow boulders
caressing my body
like the hands of saviors.

I touched the sky,
and for a moment
I saw the world in a different way
as it came screaming toward me
with its mouth wide open.

Poem-A-Day: Day 164

Silence of the Lambs

Silence,
wicked
like burning in eardrum machines
pounding out the same repetitive beat:

"You are
but can't be
not
no
yes
you are"

Listening,
wickedly
to the silence burning holistic medicine
into gray matter, nothing matters:

"I am
but not being
not
no
yes
I am"

Hearing,
hurdling
far past and among the silent beckon
of waste that has become the landscape:

"My brand
but not me
not
no
yes
My lamb"

Poem-A-Day: Day 163

Fatery

Serendipity
My grievous crime of knowing
False resolve in chance

Poem-A-Day: Day 162

Hum Electric

The hum of electric wizardry buzzes;
bees burning holes into my cerebrum
with miniature magnifying glasses.
They hold them to the sun
trying to accomplish angles never before seen;
some proof that two sides are just as good,
like devils and angels arguing moot points
over what tomb is better to be buried in.
There seems to be little repose
in being buried at all,
except for the silence from electric hums.

Poem-A-Day: Day 161

That May Be True, Shut Doors Spout Brooding Butterflies

That may be true,
but you’ll have to get back to me.
That may be true,
but you’ll have to get buttery.
That may be tore,
but you’ll have to get buttery.
That may be tore,
but your hats too bee buttery.
That way be torn,
but your hats too bee buttery.
That way be torn,
butter pats too seem buttery.
Thank they before
butter pats too seem buttery.
Thank they before
shutter bats true beam butterfly.
Blank day before
shutter bats true beam butterfly.
Blank day before
shut doors spout brooding butterflies.

Poem-A-Day: Day 160

Babel Fish Vodka: Triple Distilled

Crystal tincture trapping bliss
in cylindrical windowed wonder;
a sip or two to phantoms from the past
that come to haunt,
and memories like crystal towers;
Babel, crumbling before the eyes. 

Bonheur en cristal de piégeage de teinture
dans la merveille windowed cylindrique;
un sip ou deux aux fantômes du passé
qui viennent pour hanter,
et les mémoires aiment les tours en cristal;
Babel, s'émiettant avant les yeux.

Geluk in kristal van piégeage van verven
in het wonder cilindrische windowed;
een sip of twee aan de spoken van het verleden
die zojuist hebben achtervolgd,
en de geheugens houden van de omloop in kristal;
Babel, s'émiettant voor de ogen.

Luck in crystal of piégeage of paintings
in the wondrous cylindrical windowed;
glum or two to haunt of the past
which has pursued zojuist,
and the geheugens love turn in crystal;
Babel, s'émiettant for the eyes.

Poem-A-Day: Day 159

Bus Stop


Photo by Troy Paiva

Poem-A-Day: Day 158

Storm Crowd

careful now
so carefully carefree
do not stop to breathe
no inhale no exhale
only hailstorms coming
showering the greens
preening the trees
with icy dreams
solid clouds falling
at speeds of gravity

fearful now
so fearfully fearfree
breathing short gasps
in in in out repetitive
stormclouds blistering skin
sadly simmering
blocking the sun
foggy flower bloom
showering dreary rain
in sickening drifts

careful now
so carefully careless
breathing beating gasps
clockwork ticking misses
casting caution to the wind
in spinning tornado thoughts
sending little missiles
hurtling through the air
whistling loud and clear
on their way to damnation

fearful now
so fearfully fearless
do not stop for breaths
nothing can stop the not
from never not happening
gathering like an anvilhead
ready to pound resonation
a hammering sound
thundering down rapidly
shattering mind and spine

Poem-A-Day: Day 157

Wordsplay

Not so much
                                   it’s


                d

                 r

                 o

                  p

                   p

                    e

                     d


a                    subject

REPEATED
REPEATED
REPEATED
REPEATED
REPEATED
REPEATED

until me-------[an]-------ing

becomes 

|L|           |O|             |S|              |T|

        amongst the S
                    H
                    A
                    D
                    O
                    W
                        W  O  D  A  H  S

of the words…
            words…
                 words…

Poem-A-Day: Day 156

Double Downed

Double down deep,
deep to the heard
sounds of heart beats
congealing deep,
deep down and greased over,
through, solid paste
and pastel amazement
dripping clearing thoughts,
though it seems harmless,
the armless birdlike creature
creates some crater,
a hole, not a whole beast,
but it beats, streams heat
down deep into,
double downing, drowning blood
in waves, sine waves,
heard as bleeps deep down,
deep within the chest.

Poem-A-Day: Day 155

Sham Smash

sham


it was set up
stinging My face
like one thousand needles
plus one
and I let it
until stings start stabbing
because I can do nothing back
not one sham
and I like it
laughing back stabbing
back to traps
there was no set up
My face is fine
for now
but it doesn’t feel right


smash

Poem-A-Day: Day 154

The Giving Tree

trees budding beautiful pinks and whites
disgustingly splayed
like a whore spreading her legs
blossoming her gorgeous flower
for fertilization
trees blooming the pinks and whites
reaching up
high
to touch the sky
to press the pinks and whites to the clouds
and sing out the gospel praises
shriek out the psalms in a creaky wave
dropping petals
silken tears
shed in lustful glory
trees flowering pinks and whites
spreading petals
unfurling the gown
to earthen floor
tears welling up among the grass
beautiful pinks and whites
spread methodically
chaotically
ruffled silken sheets
stained with beautiful pinks and whites

Poem-A-Day: Day 153

It Helps

Early 80s,
and I’d like to think I was conceived
to at least one of Journey’s albums.
Life,
the great journey,
or just THE journey,
there have been peaks of greatness,
but they seem to be overshadowed
by Himalayan feats of disgust:
childhood—13 years of what?
Early 90s
soundtrack plays over lousy school speakers,
and I dance to myself,
a shaky two-step shuffle
along the green painted cinderblock wall.
I’m almost certain I wore a blue Haggar shirt,
some khaki slacks,
and a Marvin the Martian tie.
No wonder I was alone
crowded with the rest of the nerds.
Early 00s,
What’s to be said?
Awkward as ever,
yet somehow more confident
for no reason.
Stylistically, no more different
than the previous me,
only more amazing, why?
I managed to turn failure
and uncomfortable wandering
into a marketable commodity.
Poetry helped.

Poem-A-Day: Day 152

Bang, Fuck, I’m Dead

I watched from afar,
not speaking,
but watching as the eagle swept down,
proud,
with wings of steely silk,
maybe brass or bronze,
but gilded,
beguiling,
swooping,
and I saw it,
I saw the eagle from afar,
I watched it swoop down,
it snatched up,
with its claws,
successes,
perfection,
I watched the eagle,
I saw it from afar,
do what I could not,
what I could never do,
and so I shot it down,
with my own pride,
the smoking barrel,
high-fiving me,
in our moment of singularity,
happiness was a warm gun,
breathing for me,
as I stood silent,
over the eagle,
watching it stare back,
it couldn’t understand,
it could never understand,
my reasons.

Poem-A-Day: Day 151

A Dog Eat Idiot World

bit by a dog
deep down
and watched the blood flow
without a care in the world
laughing
gritting teeth through the pain
no pain
just gritted teeth
clenched hard
swelling cheeks
hard as iron
stern
the blood flowing
not a single care
just a scarlet brook
running down the mountains
and the valleys
that call themselves the arm
running down
to fingertips
dangling cherry stalactites
leaving a trail
failure
at not being able to bite back

Poem-A-Day: Day 150

Skip to My Lose

Skip it,
they say.
It’s not important right now
because there is something else
that I could be doing:
busting my face open with a brick
for instance,
or shaving my flesh off
one layer at a time
until I have a pound;
the most common unit
in weights and measures.

Desert it,
they say.
There is nothing worse,
than doting on failure,
because it’s ridiculous:
failing consistently, constantly,
at least there is some constant,
or flailing majestically over the edge
of a waterfall,
falling into some white-capped madness
that envelopes the soul;
the most common unity
in waits and pleasures.

Fuck it,
they say.
Don’t bother with it
because there isn’t anything in it,
and there may have never been
anything worth doing:
laughing hysterically, historically
speaking to the ghosts and ghasts
of past and present,
or palling around with the ghouls
of my underbelly,
undressing my self,
the most common untying
in hates and pressures.

Poem-A-Day: Day 149

Claim Jumper

The only trophies I can claim
are the ones handed out for just showing up,
and one for having the best allergy to peanuts.
I could feign interest in anything
and claim that I am the world’s best actor,
or try to not be sarcastic
and claim I have become a miracle man
casting miraculous acts of interest;
a regular 21st Century Jesus.
I could claim more than I know,
which isn’t far from the truth,
since I know more than nothing
but much less than most things.
Mostly I proclaim
to nobody in general;
some mass of feigning interest
in something that has wore out a welcome,
like a mat, caked dry with the mud
of a million shoes that have tread thoughts
through fields of blown out dreams.
I have made that claim day after day,
after relentless day, after soul crushing,
soul crushed, sold, gone, nothing.
I can claim crushing defeat,
but there isn’t anything that has won.
One claim, a proclamation to the world:
Sit back, relax, it’ll only hurt for a second.

Poem-A-Day: Day 148

By One Hour

Pardon the lateness
Of inexcusable me
T'was at the movies.

Poem-A-Day: Day 147

A Series of Tubes

A hole in the shape of a brain,
where a brain used to be
playing violin thoughts
out through cavernous ears,
ocular cavities,
nostrils, mouth with teeth,
face shaped like any other;
a present in an empty yard…
connected…
the gaping madness is connected
through some brittle tubing,
plastic medical tubing limp and flexible,
meeting other tubes in consortium,
in the middle, a bowl of rubber spaghetti
moving like snakes over one another,
moving in a slow tumultuous rumble
over one another, sexual and boring
fleshy wants and needs groaning
and bellowing like smoke from tubes,
cylinder cement tubes that cough smoke
into blue skies, clouding blue skies,
and darkening the blue skies with smoke,
billowing, churning like cement
in a twirling bulbous mixing bowl,
wet ebbs before being able to dry hard,
rock hard, cement hard, tubes,
cement cylinder tubes that stretch
down to the earth from the heart,
the earth and heart
are not so different,
the earth and heart
are only switched
by a one letter mistake,
the one letter leaves
but comes back,
in the end it comes back,
the letters
always come back,
forming tubes
and similar shapes,
snakes and noodles,
human features
and silhouettes
rumbling across
horizons of the earth,
rumbling across
verandas of the heart
till the words can’t stand,
the words can’t stand
unless they have a solid foot,
a foot that stands as the foundation
dug deep, deep within the peat moss.

Poem-A-Day: Day 146

Meop

Times uncertain in lust,
black, cold dancing dangerously,
unfathomable He:
within ominously prowls
rats wet and burning like darkness.
Piles wood; trees among them stand
could He, would He? They aren’t stolen.
Lost moments in free walking
and still standing, He is there.
Together wrapped how and
what is he, suffering human in
bondage. Cuffs criminal as
hands joining, insane and wicked
thoughts drop dew on feeding devils.

Poem-A-Day: Day 145

The Con of Man

Grifting through crucifixion,
and passing on the savings
to the poor and dispossessed
in some passing fad,
and the passing fades to fathoms
going down,
deeper down,
deeper still
until the bottom rung
resembles a single nail,
driven through the feet
of the world’s greatest conman
pulling the wool over,
and over
until it looks of threads;
hanging curtains
of a sallow face,
smiling behind the fringe
and realizing that the sunny side,
has always been on the underside.

Poem-A-Day: Day 144

Nothing But Song

I’ve been getting it all wrong,
all wrong,
somehow it’s all been wrong.

I’ve been putting my ass to the grindstone,
all wrong,
my jewels have been catching the sparks.

I’ve been letting things get in the way,
all wrong,
I should be pushing them out into traffic.

I’ve been gutting my brain like a fish,
all wrong,
it should be spilling the thoughts on fire.

I’ve been betting on things to change,
all wrong,
the changes are scamming me blind.

I’ve been butting into the winners,
all wrong,
they should be budding into my vision.

Slave’s den shedding shit; all songs,
all songs,
somehow it’s all just been songs.

Poem-A-Day: Day 143

248>143

Some brain-dead genius
tried marketing a phrase to the world,
and it sunk in;
some god forsaken meteor
debasing the human race,
crippling all the joggers' legs
like so many felled trees.

But if a trillion trees fall at the same time,
does the sound sound differently
to anyone bothering to listen?

Because it’s not so much a phrase,
but some twisted mathematical equation
equating the most vapid sequence of numerals
since it was discovered that pi
could not be eaten,
nor ever fully realized.

143, at rest seems simplistic,
‘til someone decided to shit it up
with some bizarrely worded meaning.

"I love you,"
naively stated
in arbitrary numeric terms,
washed of what little meaning it has
and traded in for middle school charm.

I have a better phrase
as equally numeric,
and with a richer double meaning.

It’s no less complicated,
yet infinitely more intriguing,
and with far more uses
than a simple 143.

248 simply means:
go fuck yourself
twice as much as the last.

Poem-A-Day: Day 142

Echoes

Distant echo
crooning across the skies,
bouncing off millions of distant stars,
millions now living,
never dying,
and the scent
of remembrance trapped
in indescribable consequences floating
like the chilling reminder
of something
possibly lost,
or willingly departed
to somewhere that allows reverberation
off of bells and metal,
ringing softly,
but not gone,
merely a distant echoing;
sounds like hearts beating in the heat
of their own chests,
beating distant.

Poem-A-Day: Day 141

My God! It’s Full of Onions

Some distinct smell of onions
wafting maniacally;
a plane flying stunts
around cavernous billows of hair
and steam.
Magically, the onions are there,
but why,
where did they come from,
the road is no place for dancing onions,
no place for dancing anything.
Yet they mock incessantly,
waltzing about the air
out of sync with all known physics,
and physics is everywhere,
physics is law above man,
above gods,
it cannot be destroyed, only altered,
matter is matter
no matter the determinant factors.
Regardless,
the onions dance,
cooking their delightful scent
upon the hapless denizens
driving to and from
wherever they come and go.
The onions don’t seem to care.
The onions are planes
skywriting mystery
into the craft of dance.

Poem-A-Day: Day 140

Fool Hearted

They call me a fool…
a fool.
I am a fool.

foolish for them,
foolish looking,
foolish for faithfully pursuing

the shit that people say is foolish
of me to do, but I’m foolish.
I’m nothing but foolish.

“Fool” they say,
fool for everything.
Fool, nothing but a fucking fool.